Harde Is His Heart That Loveth Nought

Soun Is Noght But Air Ybroken, And Every Speche That Is Spoken, Loud Or Privee, Foul Or Fair, In His Substaunce Is But Air; For As Flaumbe Is But Lighted Smoke, Right So Soun Is Air Ybroke.

The Handsome Gifts That Fate And Nature Lend Us Most Often Are The Very Ones That End Us.

I Am Not The Rose, But I Have Lived Near The Rose.

How Potent Is The Fancy! People Are So Impressionable, They Can Die Of Imagination.

He Who Accepts His Poverty Unhurt I'd Say Is Rich Although He Lacked A Shirt. But Truly Poor Are They Who Whine And Fret And Covet What They Cannot Hope To Get.